


Open Hands at the Top of the World

by lizzstomania



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, California, Dorms, Drinking, First Kiss, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Slow Burn, Weed Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzstomania/pseuds/lizzstomania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very self-serving college AU staring everyone's favorite sad, gay Greek boys. Patroclus is an RA and Achilles is his painfully hot, devastatingly adorable resident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This essentially follows the events of my last two years of college at the University of California Santa Cruz. There's a lot of lingo that's UCSC specific, including locations. As this progresses, if anyone needs me to explain anything, please ask and I definitely will. All you need to picture for the setting is redwoods. Just. Hella redwoods. 
> 
> Also, this has not been beta-read, so if there are any glaring errors, please let me know. This also means that I'll probably go through and edit it several times between now and when the last part is posted.
> 
> The rating will go up in later chapters.

"Pa… Pat-rock-ulus? Men—"

"It’s um, I go by Pat."

"What is that? Greek?"

Patroclus winces a little, hyperaware of every eye on him. “Uh, yeah, but it’s a… lot, so I usually go by Patrick. Or Pat. Or um, anything else.”

His professor squints a little. “Pa-troc- _loose_."

Patroclus sighs. Every so often there’s one, a single teacher determined to call him by his “real name,” which is, in Pat’s opinion, a bunch of bullshit.

"Please, just call me Pat."

The professor, Professor Higgins, whispers his name out one more time, Pat- _row_ -closs, stressing the wrong syllable, butchering his name again before moving on.

Pat doodles a little in the corner of his paper, having already written out the date and the class title (World Lit 150: Network Theory, which is still a little foggy to him as a subject, honestly, but a GE’s a GE and Pat never met a class he couldn’t pass), and ignores the rest of the attendance until Higgens gets to the waitlist and encounters another name he can’t pronounce.

"Ac-chill-eese?"

Pat sees a very blonde head slouch down a little.

"It’s Ah-kill-ease, but Ace is fine." The voice is clear, musical almost, and It reminds Pat so strongly of summer that he can almost smell sunscreen.

Higgins huffs a little and tries again. “Ach-ill-eese.”

Achilles huffs a lot and, like Pat, seems to resign himself to a quarter of torture in the form of terrible pronunciation. Pat feels a weird sort of solidarity towards Achilles—Ace—and when Ace cuts a glance at him from two rows away, Pat only flushes a little and tries to smile back.

Higgins announces that there’s room in the class for everyone on the waitlist and Ace’s eyes—gold? green? brown? Pat’s not a hundred percent sure, but god they’re gorgeous—slide back to the front of the room. Pat’s face stays a little hot for the rest of the class, heating up again every time Ace looks around and catches him staring.

***

There's a lot of good about going to college on the west coast; Pat's just having a lot of trouble remembering any of them as he walks up the last set of stairs back to his dorm. Every year he tells himself, "This is the summer I stay in shape," and every fall, Pat's back to huffing and heaving all over campus for two months while he gets his hiking body back (UCSC is an amazing, amazing school for a lot of reasons but the way his ass looks after two months of hiking all over campus is probably number one). Pat weaves his way across the quad and swipes his way into the building. He nods to a few of his residents as he drags himself up the three flights of stairs to his room. There's a little note in the envelope tacked to his bulletin board and he hopes it's something relevant this time. As he's unlocking his door, he hears someone call his name and tries not to sigh too noticeably.

"Pat! Hey, Pat!"

Pat turns around and sees one of his residents--David? Danny? it's only week two--and Ace, from his lit class, jogging down the hall. It's a bit unfair, Pat thinks, that even in the shitty dorm lighting, Ace is still one of the most beautiful things Pat has ever seen. His hair really shouldn't be glowing inside, but the strands catch the gold from the sun setting through the big window at the end of the hall and it lights him up.

"--If it's not too late?"

"Hmm?" Pat missed... all of that. His bag starts to slide off his shoulder and he tugs it back into place. "Sorry, today's my long day. Lemme just--" he slides his key in and taps out his code. "Come in, we can... Yeah."

Pat tosses his bag under his desk and gestures sort of wildly around the room. Ace sits at the foot of his bed and... Darryl? Derek? drops into the chair by the wardrobe. Par leans against his dresser.

"Okay," he says, "Sorry for spacing out. Whatcha need?"

"Darren and I were wondering if I could swap into his double since his roommate never showed," Ace says. "I'm not feelin' my roommate and Darren says you're a good CA."

Pat tries really hard not to blush. He's probably sixty percent successful. He pushes away from the dresser and heads to his desk.

"Darren, you're cool with it?" Darren nods. "And Ace, you're fine with the LGBT theme? This is a safe space and it's really important to me that it stays that way."

Ace's eyes are practically twinkling and Pat kind of wants to jump out a window when Ace fucking winks at him and says, easy as pie, "Yeah that's definitely not a problem for me."

Darren giggles and Pat is suddenly, viscerally jealous. Ace is still looking at him though, green eyes bright in the last bits of sunlight, and his window only opens maybe three inches. Pat can feel Ace watching him as he rifles through the mostly-organized stacks of papers on his desk. He finds the stuff for swapping rooms and talks the boys through the steps. When they leave, Darren just waves and takes off, but Ace sort of lingers, one hand in his pocket, the other holding Pat's doorknob a little tight.

"You're in my Lit class, right?" Ace says. "Patroclus-Call-Me-Pat."

Pat nods, swallowing. "Achilles-Call-Me-Ace."

Ace grins a little and it kind of takes Pat's breath away, that tiny smile, beautiful like the sun bursting through the clouds at sunset. Ace is still talking, Pat's pretty sure, but Pat's a little busy trying not to say something really stupid like, "Your teeth are really pretty" or "We should get married."

"Pat?"

"Hmm?"

"I was... never mind."

Pat scratches the back of his head, rolls his shoulders a little. "I'm so sorry, it's just been a hell of a day. I have all three of my classes today and I always forget that Porter closes so early and I end up missing dinner. Start over. I'll listen this time."

"Come eat with me, then" Ace says. "We can talk about how fucking awful Higgins is at College Eight.”

Pat stands in the doorway, blinking, while Ace starts walking down the hallway.

"You comin', Pat?"

"Definitely."

***

Achilles becomes something of a constant in Patroclus’s life after that. Pat’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be this close to any of his residents, but Ace is… compelling. He’s just always around now; either he’s locked himself out of his room for the fifteenth time (and Pat honestly can’t bring himself to start charging Ace for the lockouts) or he’s running in the bike lane when Pat’s on his way to his 8am, or he’s in the bathroom when Pat gets out of the shower and they brush their teeth side by side. Achilles invites himself to Pat’s study sessions with Briseis, which Pat fully expects to end disastrously, but Briseis tolerates Achilles and Ace adores her, so it goes pretty alright. It gets to a point where Pat can’t turn around without Ace being there and Pat is… definitely not complaining.

He’s _currently_ complaining, but it’s midterms and it’s justified. Pat has three papers to write and Ace has already finished his two midterms, lucky music major, so he’s lounging all over Pat’s room, being beautiful and untouchable while Pat tries to write about the continental renaissance. It’s not going very well.

Occasionally, Brie will text him, things like “Study hard or you’ll end up losing all your teeth and living under a bridge!” and “You can do it and if you don’t we can’t be friends anymore!” and “I’ll disown you if you fail your midterms but you won’t because you’re smart and hardworking!” Ace thinks it’s hilarious and has taken to also sending Pat slightly encouraging and vaguely threatening text messages, usually involving food, usually sent while they’re in the same room. Pat finds it endearing and distracting; he’s always endeared and distracted by Achilles. 

His phone vibrates on his desk and he ignores it. It vibrates twice more before he sighs and picks it up. Ace is laying the wrong way across his bed, pretending to be asleep with his bare feet on Pat’s pillow. Patroclus is not fooled.

The first message reads, “stop writing your paper and bring me the grapes in your fridge.” Pat rolls his eyes. The second one says, “pat im hungry im hungry pat pat the grapes are no longer enough can i have your leftover indian takeout.” That Indian food is gone; Pat ate it for breakfast that morning. The last one says, “wedding’s off pat u cant provide for me im wasting away paaaaaaaaat.”

When Pat looks over, Ace is still pretending to be asleep, so Pat feels little remorse in tossing a granola bar at him, and still doesn’t feel bad at all when it hits Achilles square in the face and he sits up, squawking indignantly. By the time Ace has calmed down, Pat is back to writing, phone down. Ace grumbles under his breath as he opens the granola bar but doesn’t actually leave to get real food.

Pat’s never had a friend like Ace before and later, when Ace goes outside to answer his phone and comes back with pizza, Pat has to remind himself again that he doesn’t want to fuck that up.

***

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving, Pat?”

“No.” Pat can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice when he answers. Ace just nods, like Pat said exactly what he thought he’d say, and carries on texting. Pat goes back to his poetry analysis and a few minutes later, Ace gets up, shoves his feet into Pat’s slippers, and leaves, propping the door open on his way out.

Ace is obviously coming back, so Pat isn’t worried, and it’s always nice for an RA (or in his case, a CA, which stands for Community Assistant because Porter’s a Transfer _Community_. Whatever) to have their door open. Since he started hanging out with Ace all the time, Patroclus has become a lot closer to most of his residents. He’s accessible. It’s… nice. Most of his residents are still older than he is, but yeah, it’s nice.

Pat can hear some people talking in the hallway, about the upcoming holiday, and wishes, furiously but briefly, that he _had_ a home to go to. His dad was… _disappointed_ when Pat came out at seventeen. He was disappointed at first and then angry and then enraged and then Pat went to college and hasn’t been home since. He usually rents a room over the summer and works and saves and works and saves. Being a CA and having his housing and food paid for is a really, really big relief.

He can hear Achilles coming back now; he’s talking on the phone as he pushes Pat’s door open, face a little red as he argues with whoever’s on the other line.

“No, no, I want him to,” Ace is saying, kicking off his slippers and climbing back onto Pat’s bed. “No, Ma, I’m… Yes, I’m listening.” He’s quiet for a second, rolling his eyes at Pat as he settles under a throw blanket—Pat has amassed a surprising amount of throw blankets since becoming friends with Achilles—before continuing, “But I still want him to come home with me for Thanksgiving.” Pat perks up a little, because it sounds like Ace is talking about taking _him_ home for the break. “Ma, please. He’s not going and I don’t want him to be alone. Pat’s the first friend I’ve ever had—Mother.” Pat’s face is _so warm_ and he’s torn between a bubbling feeling of friendly affection— _the first friend he’s ever had_ —and a weird, crushing, heartbreak— _friend_ and nothing more—and Ace is still arguing. “Mom, we’re not even doing anything big and there’s definitely room for Pat… Mom, please…”

Pat’s never heard that particular strain of begging in Ace’s voice; people tend to just do whatever Achilles wants them to with little to no resistance and this weird, hopeful begging Ace is doing is kind of amazing to watch, if Patroclus is being completely honest. The fact that Ace wants Pat to go home with him _that bad_ is a little gratifying.

“Yes! Thanks, Mom!” Ace hangs up and tosses his phone in the air. His smile is so bright it kind of hurts to look at it straight on. Pat’s a little stunned; Ace is talking really fast, making plans, going on about driving down to San Luis in Pat’s old car, stopping for In n Out, taking the coast.

“Ace, I appreciate the offer,” Pat starts, purposely keeping a somber, straight face, “but I’m on duty that weekend.”

“What?”

“I’m on duty, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Pat.”

“I can’t go.”

“Patroclus.” Full first names are reserved for Very Serious Moments. “I mean, Pat, you’re not seriously—“

Pat can feel his face slipping; his grin peeking out in little breaks as Ace works himself up to a righteous fury. His plans switch from driving down to bribing other CAs into swapping with Pat.

“Oh my God, Ace, I was joking.”

Achilles sputters to a stop, which is also highly entertaining, and glares at Patroclus with as much intensity as he can. It’s not a lot because Pat’s giggling a little and Ace incapable of keeping a straight face if Pat is laughing. Pat watches him struggle to keep frowning while his eyebrows are wiggling everywhere and his mouth is twitching.

“I’d love to come home for Thanksgiving with you,” Pat says. He puts one foot up on his bed, uses it to push himself in little half circles in his chair. Ace wraps his hand around Pat’s ankle and says, softly, like rain in the redwoods, “I’d be devastated if you didn’t.”

***

When Pat thinks back about The Weekend, his favorite part is the driving. After a very serious talk about abuse of privilege, Pat reluctantly surrenders the auxiliary cord. Their bags are in the trunk and Ace’s driving snacks, which turned out to be a huge basket of fruit from the fruit guy on the Eastside, is in the backseat and it’s warm enough to warrant the windows down and Patroclus feels bubbly inside, elated and powerful. Pat spends the first half of the drive asking, “Who’s this?” every other song and trying to catch the grapes Aces tosses at him in his mouth. They take the 1, which Pat has never done before, and he eventually makes Ace switch with him and drive instead so he can take a hundred pictures.

San Luis Obispo is a cute enough city, Pat supposes, as they drive past the university. All the street signs have the font from _The Hobbit_ and everything is green and smells like the ocean. Ace’s house is a big, sprawling two-story thing with a huge yard and a lot of toys in the yard.

“Do you,” Pat asks as they pull into the driveway, “have a lot of siblings?” He’s pretty sure that Ace is an only child but they walk past a Tonka tricycle with the paint wearing away, several Frisbees, a basketball, a soccer ball, a bright pink bucket, two shovels, and three? three naked Barbie dolls on their way to the front door.

“My dad runs a day care,” Ace says. He adjusts the strap of his duffle and unlocks the door. “All the kids should be gone for the holiday, though. Sometimes,” Ace is walking backwards through the house, eyes on Pat’s face as he talks and leads them to what is clearly his childhood bedroom, “Sometimes my dad will host sad military boys for the holidays though, so we might have more company than just you and me.”

“Takes a lot of pressure off me, then,” Pat says, “If I’m not the only guest of honor.” He drops his bag and looks around. The walls are painted a deep, vibrant blue and covered with evenly spaced posters. The one bookshelf is half books, half trophies, half pictures of a tiny Achilles in various life events; Pat can see several sports team pictures and, tucked in among them, a single picture of Ace crying at a spelling bee. There’s a huge window behind the bed, giving a spectacular view of the backyard and behind that, the glittering ocean. Everything is neat and dust-free and the bed, which Ace has thrown himself on top of, is a queen, covered in so many blankets that Pat can’t see what color the duvet is.

“We’re gonna have to share,” his voice is a little muffled by a pillow, but he sounds a little nervous. As though they’ve never shared the XL twins back at Porter. “I could get you a sleeping bag, but it’s hardwood floors.”

Pat shrugs. “That’s. I mean. Your parents won’t care?”

Ace blinks up at him. “No.”

“Then I don’t care either,” Pat promises. “Is there a bathroom?”

Ace points to a door Pat hadn’t noticed before and Pat heads toward it. “Hurry up, though. I think my mom’s almost here.”

“What, did she call you or something?” Pat calls, through the door.

“Nah, I can just tell,” Ace replies. “The air changes when she’s around, like she’s pulling the oxygen out of it. It’s honestly kind of amazing and I can totally understand why my parents never actually got married.”

“On a scale of one to ten,” Pat asks, washing his hands. “How afraid of your mother should I be?” When he opens the door again, Ace is sitting up, fucking _glowing_ in the late afternoon sunlight. His hair is messy and his shirt has a small stain near the collar and he’s so, so beautiful. Pat is mostly used to how devastatingly beautiful Achilles is, but sometimes… it’s a lot. God, sometimes it’s too fucking much. Pat has to sit down next to him so he doesn’t have to look at him anymore.

Ace appears to consider this question very seriously. “Probably a twelve,” he finally decided.

They hear the sounds of a door opening and then a cold, clear voice calls, “Achilles?”

Ace grins. Pat swallows. _Definitely_ a twelve.

***

Achilles was wrong. Thetis is terrifying and Patroclus is closer to a twenty on that one-to-ten scale. She sweeps into Ace’s bedroom, sweeps them out to the dining room, and sweeps right over everything Patroclus says at dinner. Achilles’s dad, Peleus, did indeed invite a couple guys from the army over for the actual Thanksgiving meal, and that would have been better except Thetis spends the entire meal trying to get either of the (obviously straight) boys interested in dating Achilles. All it does is make Pat _more_ interested in dating Ace himself, which he _really_ doesn’t need.

Everything about Pat seem to irritate Thetis, from his major (“Biology? What’s your plan with biology?” “I've been thinking about med school, ma’am." "Why aren't you pre-med" "That’s just my actual major at my university.”) to his hobbies (“A literary magazine?” Thetis asks, eyes dark and narrow. "I...like writing?") to his job (“So you’re _just_ an RA?” Pat has nothing to say to this. He _is_ just an RA). By the end of the meal, Pat is exhausted and Ace is fuming. Peleus gently shoos Thetis out not long after pie is served. As soon as she leaves, Pat feels like he can breathe again and everything gets a lot better. Peleus lets them all drink, a toast to “Surviving _that_ ” as the only acknowledgement to Thetis.

The rest of the weekend passes slowly and quickly at once, bathed in sunlight. They watch football and eat leftovers on Friday, and then the army boys, brothers actually, leave. On Saturday, Peleus sleeps all day so Ace and Pat go hiking. Being outside with Ace in his home environment is amazing and torturous. Sleeping next to Ace, in a bed that’s big enough for two, in a bed where Ace insists on wrapping himself around Pat anyway, is amazing and torturous. Spending several uninterrupted days as the sole focus of Achilles’s attention is amazing and torturous. Ace knows a lot about the trails near his house and the quickest way to the beach and how to treat poison oak when Pat falls into a patch of it and doesn’t understand why he’s so itchy an hour later. Even at school, Ace is never so carefree and when Sunday rolls around, Pat is reluctant to leave. Peleus makes pancakes and Ace gets chocolate sauce all over himself, and when they leave, Peleus hugs Pat too and Pat tries not to cry.

Ace is quiet on the way home, fingers twisting and untwisting around the aux cord. Somewhere around Monterey he asks, “Did you have a good weekend, Pat?”

Pat doesn’t hesitate. “The best,” he answers honestly. “I like being around you.” Okay, that was probably _too_ honest. Whatever.

When Pat looks over, Ace is smiling at him, a small, private thing, and Pat can _feel_ his heart melting.

“I like being around you, too.”

***

Patroclus sees a flash of light a second before the alarm starts blaring. He contemplates staying there and burrows a little deeper into the mass of blankets on his bed, before rolling over and onto his feet, groaning. His watch reads 2:07 and he immediately decides that murder is probably his only option. Someone pulled the fire alarm at 2:07 on a Monday morning, the week before finals, in _December_ ; this qualifies as justifiable homicide in Patroclus's book. He pulls on a hoodie, jams his feet into his shoes without stopping for socks, and yanks open his door, yelling.

"Alright everyone! Head to the Squiggle!"

Most of his residents are already out in the hallway, blinking and grumbling, so he starts knocking on doors, all the while herding people toward the stairs. No one answers when he gets to Ace and Darren’s room so he keeps moving, systematically checking all the rooms and all the bathrooms on his floor while the alarm rings on into the night. He meets up with the other CAs and together they do one last sweep of the building, top to bottom. There’s no fire, of fucking course, but protocol is protocol and by the time they finish going through the entire building, the alarm’s been shut off. Pat can see the lights of the fire trucks through the windows. Everything is kind of blurry.

They make their way outside and the cold punches through Pat’s sweater, cutting to the bone, and he shivers violently, tucking his hands into his armpits. The Campus Security Officers are talking to the fire department and Julie, the CRE, is talking to the CAs. The students are standing around, stamping their feet, a few smoking here and there. Pat tries to be sneaky as he looks around for Achilles, but he can’t see him. There’re about six hundred people out at the Squiggle, so this isn’t too surprising, just a little disappointing. Pat blows into his hands and nods when Julie asks him if his hall is empty. He’s hopping a little, trying to warm up, so he was _totally_ already moving when something warm and heavy settles across his shoulders, and he startles.

“You looked a little chilly,” Ace says around a yawn. Pat’s so grateful for the warmth that he can’t do anything but smile helplessly at Ace, who looks warm and delightfully sleep-rumpled and so, so soft in the shitty street lights by the Porter classrooms. Ace plasters himself to Patroclus’s back, rubbing his cheek against the back of Pat’s head and Pat just stands there, shivering slightly and blushing a lot, probably. They stand there like that until Julie—where the hell did she get a _megaphone_ —calls out that there is no fire, that she’s sorry, that they’re going to try and figure out who did this, and that they can all go back to their dorms and back to bed. She wishes them luck on their finals and six hundred people start shuffling back toward the building.

Ace follows Pat past his room and into Pat’s and climbs into Pat’s bed, snuggling down with his back against the wall and falling asleep almost immediately. This is definitely _not allowed_ , at all, in any way, shape, or form, as Pat has reminded Ace _so many times_ , but Pat is cold and it’s very late and Ace is probably warm. Warmer than Pat, who’s still standing in his sweatshirt and sneakers with no socks, watching the gentle rise and fall of Ace’s chest. He climbs into bed, arranging the blankets over them, as Ace snuffles into his shoulder.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this while listening to Panic! at the Disco. I hope you're still thinking about California Redwoods.
> 
> I also stayed up until 2:30am to finish and post this and I still don't have a beta. Sorry about any mistakes. As usual, let me know if you need me to explain anything or if there are any glaring errors.

_12/16/13, 4:35PM_  
hiiiiiiiii. this is achilles i know were only supposed to use this for  
emergencies but loneliness probably counts right

 _12/16/13, 4:36PM_  
I think there are probably more than a few medical  
professionals who would agree with you on that one.  
Hi Ace how are you?

 _12/16/13, 4:36PM_  
lonely! winter break is boring everything cool is in santa cruz

 _12/16/13, 4:37PM_  
This is true. I’m still in Santa Cruz, after all.

 _12/16/13, 4:37PM_  
exactly

 _12/18/13, 1:15PM_  
are you staying at the dorms pat?

 _12/18/13, 1:16PM_  
Yes? I usually stay at the dorms until summer, when I  
sublet and then move back on campus in the fall.

 _12/18/13, 1:16PM_  
SO YOURE ON CAMPUS BY YOURSELF????

 _12/18/13, 1:17PM_  
No there are a few other people around. It’s actually been  
really nice, not having to deal with everyone getting high all over the place  
or SOME PEOPLE getting locked out all the time.

 _12/18/13, 1:17PM_  
My job is way easier over the breaks  
and I don’t have to pay for housing soooo.

 _12/18/13, 1:19PM_  
okay well i dont like your tone mister im very forgetful  
and the ca that usually lets me in is very cute

 _12/18/13, 1:19PM_  
i dont know what you expect of me

 _12/18/13, 1:19PM_  
You could at least make me cookies or something.  
You know I’m supposed to report these and charge you for them.

 _12/18/13, 1:20PM_  
one dozen of pat’s favorite cookies comin right up!

 _12/23/13, 11:56AM_  
god my mom is so fuckin terrible why does she keep  
trying to get me to change my major i dont WANT  
to go into Sports Medicine i wanna make music

 _12/23/13, 11:56AM_  
at least my dad is cool

 _12/23/13, 11:56AM_  
hey how come i dont know anything about your family  
tell me about them

 _12/23/13, 11:57AM_  
There’s not a lot to tell, tbh. It’s just me.

 _12/23/13, 11:57AM_  
you sprang fully formed from the earth and automatically knew  
how to pretend to be disapproving from day one????

 _12/23/13, 11:57AM_  
i dont believe you

 _12/23/13, 11:57AM_  
I mean. It’s just

 _12/23/13, 11:58AM_  
paaaaaaaaat

 _12/23/13, 11:58AM_  
It’s.

 _12/23/13, 11:58AM_  
PATROCLUS

 _12/23/13, 12:00PM_  
You know what. Fine.

 _12/23/13, 12:02PM_  
My mom had dementia and accidentally killed herself  
when I was seven. My dad and I never really got along and when  
I came out my senior year he pretended to be okay with it and  
then went on a bunch of increasingly terrible drunk rampages  
where he broke a bunch of my stuff  
yelling about how he didn’t want a fag son.  
Eventually he broke my wrist.

 _12/23/13, 12:03PM_  
I left.

 _12/23/13, 12:03PM_  
So yeah. It’s just me.

 _12/23/13, 12:07PM_  
my dad says he can adopt you and  
also beat your dad up if you want

 _12/23/13, 12:07PM_  
my dad might like you more than he likes me

 _12/23/13, 12:07PM_  
i think im okay with that

 _01/01/14, 12:02AM_  
“Hi Pat! I think you said one time that loneliness cons-contistuded as a ‘mergency so I _hope_ it works over the phone, too.” There’s some garbled mumbling and a noise like Ace dropped his phone before he continues, voice a little clearer. “I’m sad, Pat, very, very sad. I thought coming home for Christmas would be good but it isn’t. I wish I’d stayed. I’m sad and bored and alone all the time.” A dog barks in the background and Achilles is quiet for a long time. “I wish I’d stayed with you.”

***

Pat never brings up the one voicemail Achilles left for him over break. He plays it over and over, until he’s memorized every word. When classes start up again, Ace is still a constant in Pat’s life but it’s _different_. Ace is quieter, goes to less parties, hangs out in Pat’s room even more than he used to.

Winter quarter moves along quickly, a haze of papers, projects, and mild depression on Pat’s part that passes quickly, but leaves him feeling oddly vulnerable. Ace buys an electric kettle to keep in Pat’s dorm and starts stealing tea bags from the dining hall. It’s a remarkably dry winter, maybe three rainy days total, and they take advantage of it as often as possible. Ace drags Pat to the beach, where they bring their schoolbooks and always end up leaving them in the striped tote bag Ace has dubbed their “beach bag.” Pat drags Ace to the top floor of the library to study, eventually realizing that they have to sit in the quiet study area or they still won’t get any work done. Ace still sleeps in Pat’s room more often than not; his pillow has a permanent place next to Pat’s, his toiletries are on the floor by the door, and his books are stacked up on the desk. Pat’s a solid 89% sure that if Julie or Moe DeLage found out about this, he’d get fired, but he doesn’t actually care that much.

***

Someone is singing. Someone is singing _so loudly_ that Pat can hear them _through a closed door and his headphones,_ which are playing Modest Mouse at almost top volume. The lounge is quiet—everyone in there is also plugged into laptops or tablets or phones—but whoever is wandering the halls missed that memo. Some brilliant jackass decided that St Patrick’s Day would kick off the start of finals week, and someone in the hallway just _doesn’t care_. Pat sees two or three residents eye him suggestively, eyebrows pleading, and he sighs. Shuts his laptop, takes out his headphones, and announces to the room, “Watch this,” before yanking the door open and storming out into the hallway. 

Achilles is sitting on the floor in front of Pat’s door, singing Cheap Trick and tossing his phone into the air. Pat’s pretty sure he’s drunk.

”Hi, Ace.”

Ace startles, falls over, and mercifully stops singing. He’s got a great voice but it’s so, so _loud._

”Patroclus!”

Ace is _definitely_ drunk. If Pat doesn’t get him inside a room as soon as possible, he’ll have to write him up.

”You’re so lucky,” Pat huffs as he hauls Ace up by the armpits, “that I’m twenty-one.” He pushes his door open—it was _open_ ; why didn’t Ace just _go inside_ —and starts to drag Ace through the doorway. Ace is singing again, but quieter. Pat talks over it. “If I was still twenty, I’d have nowhere to put you. I’d have to write you up.”

”And we’ll all float on, okay.”

”I should write you up anyway.” He drops Ace on the floor by the mini-fridge and kicks his doorstop out of the way.

”Alright already we’ll all float on.”

”Drink this.” Pat shoves a water bottle into Ace’s hand and Ace fucking _beams_ up at him and wraps his long fingers around Pat’s pink Nalgene. Ace motions for Pat to come closer. When Pat leans down, Achilles hooks his fingers into the pocket on the front of Pat’s shirt and whispers, “We’ll all float on, Pat,” while maintaining an almost uncomfortable level of eye contact. “We’ll all float on okay.” He drains the Nalgene and eyes the bed hopefully, mouth turning down in a pout. His fingers are still in Pat’s pocket, swishing slowly back and forth.

”Bed please,” Ace says, fluttering his eyelashes up at Pat. His other hand slips up behind Pat’s head so it’s easy for Pat to wrap his arms around that slim waist and gently lead Ace over to the bed. Ace smacks a kiss to Pat’s cheek and squeezes the back of Pat’s neck before he flops down onto Pat’s bed. Pat leaves when Ace starts to shimmy out of his jeans lying down.

He still has a paper to finish but at least now he knows his bed will be soft and warm when he crawls into it at four in the morning.

***

Pat wakes up alone, which is a little disorienting and a lot confusing because he’s about about ninety percent sure Achilles slept over again. He’s stretching a little, luxuriating in all the space he has to himself, when his door opens and Ace comes in, two cups of coffee from the Owl’s Nest stacked on top of each other in one hand and a bag under the other arm. He has half a bagel in his mouth and the morning sun pouring through Pat’s open shade glows across his cheekbones, down his nose. Ace is concentrating very hard on not dropping anything as he maneuvers around the mess—finals week was very stressful, okay?—and Pat takes the opportunity to watch him.

Achilles moves so smoothly, stepping around books and shoes and clothes to place breakfast on the desk, graceful in a way Pat will probably never achieve. He’s so aware of his body all the time, of the amount of space he needs, of how much room he takes up, of where every part of him is and needs to be at all times. He moves with the grace of a dancer, light on his feet and fluid, but with the power of a runner, sure-footed and steady. It’s fascinating. Ace still thinks Pat is asleep, probably; he’s humming Alt-J softly under his breath and picking up all his things off the floor, folding shirts and stacking books. Pat watches the muscles stretch and contract under the thin fabric of Ace’s t-shirt, which, on closer inspection is Pat’s t-shirt.

”Thief,” Pat says, throwing his arm over his eyes.

”Do thieves bring you breakfast?” The bed dips near Pat’s hip. “Thieves would never bring you coffee and bagels and bananas, would they?” Ace lets a coffee cup rest on Pat’s chest. “Thieves don’t take people to Disneyland for spring break, do they?” Ace lets go of the cup and Pat holds his breath. “Get up, lazyface, and if you get ready fast enough, maybe I’ll give you back your shirt. Eventually.”

”Probably not, though,” Pat says, moving his arm so he can hold the coffee and sit up. Ace grins at him, blinding.

”Probably not.”

***

”It really costs a hundred dollars to get in?”

”Yeah, and it’s _worth it_ ,” Ace says, handing the lady behind the glass his credit card. “Tell him,” he says, signing his card slip.

The lady nods. “It’s the happiest place on earth,” she says with a smile.

They take their tickets and Pat grumbles, “They pay you to say that,” on their way to the turnstiles.

”Doesn’t make it less true,” Ace singsongs at him.

They make their way into the park and the day passes in snapshots for Pat. They go on Indiana Jones first and Pat is pretty sure his teeth rattled out of his head. There are mint juleps and pierogi. Ace is covered in powdered sugar; he wipes his hands on Pat’s jeans. They go on Star Tours, which is sort of lost on Pat because he hasn’t seen Star Wars since he was a very small child. He doesn’t understand why everyone’s so excited when he gets picked as the rebel spy. Pat is very bad at the Buzz Lightyear ride. Ace is very, very good. Pat almost cries on Space Mountain. After, he hides in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. Ace buys him a lollipop as big as his head.

They go on Splash Mountain and Ace buys a print of their ride photo. Pat is in the very front, eyes shut, screaming, and Ace is right behind him, smiling with his hands up. They walk into Toon Town and immediately walk right back out. They get into an actual argument over whether to go on Big Thunder Mountain or the Matterhorn. Pat wants to go on the smaller coaster—“If you haven’t noticed, _Achilles_ , I’m not actually very fond of roller coasters!”—and Ace is convinced he can handle both—“The Matterhorn is not that bad, Pat will you just trust me?”—and Pat doesn’t want to budge; he’s tired, his feet hurt, and he’s already embarrassed about Space and Splash Mountains.

They end up going on both. Ace holds his hand the entire time they’re in line and on the Matterhorn. It’s not actually that bad. Patroclus will not admit this.

They go to Downtown Disney for dinner, to a taqueria that reminds Pat of Chipotle. They sit outside and waste a bunch of time trash talking various Disney characters—“Are you kidding? Mulan would kick the _shit_ out of Jafar; I don’t care how magic he is!” “No man, fuck Elsa and Anna, Lilo and Nani are the _original_ feminist Disney sisters, I’ll fight you on this until I _die_ ”—until it’s time to go stand around for fireworks.

Pat has seen fireworks before. Santa Cruz does some at the Boardwalk every summer and he’s also seen some in San Francisco after Giants games, but he’s never seen Disney Fireworks and he didn’t _know_. He didn’t know that he knew so many of the songs they used or that they would viscerally remind him of his childhood. He didn’t know he was going to cry, but Ace must have seen it coming because when his eyes first start stinging, Ace is right there with an arm around his shoulder.

***

”As a final request from The Powers That Be, I’m supposed to _politely_ suggest to all of you that you go to the picket lines tomorrow and Wednesday and utilize this opportunity to see political action on the ground level. I’m also supposed to,” Pat looks down at the paper he’s holding, “remind those of you who don’t feel comfortable going to the picket lines that this isn’t just a holiday or a day off, but should you choose to take advantage of the time off from classes, that’s okay too.” Pat looks around the lounge, where most of his residents are gathered, staring out the windows. “I guess that’s it. Any questions? No? You’re good to go.”

The room clears out and Pat’s left alone, which is weird; he was sure Ace was gonna stick around. Whatever. They’re capable of doing things separately even if Pat doesn’t particularly want to. Pat’s truly horrendous crush on Achilles hasn’t calmed down at all, which isn’t surprising considering Ace practically lives with him and they definitely _act_ like they’re dating. Without any kissing. Or sex. It’s terrible actually. Ace always smells so nice and his skin is always so soft and his mouth is a very kissable mouth and his thighs are so strong and Pat should probably go back to his room before he gets a boner in the lounge.

Ace is in his room, lying the wrong way across the bed with his feet on the pillows again, texting furiously.

”Get your fuckin’ feet off my pillow.”

Ace wiggles his ankles a little but doesn’t actually move his feet. Pat kicks off his shoes, picks up Ace’s feet, sits on the pillows, and drops Ace’s feet into his lap.

”Get your fuckin’ ass off my pillow,” Ace parrots back at him, locking his phone and dropping it onto his stomach.

My pillow, my bed, my room, my ass goes where it wants.”

Ace rolls his eyes. “Look around. There’s more of my stuff in here than yours.”

Pat digs his thumb into Ace’s ankle bone and says, “Yeah, I noticed. Take some of this shit back to your room.” Ace’s phone lights up.

”Brie wants to go to the meadow and smoke tomorrow,” Ace says. “Do you wanna come?”

”I think the real question is: Do I want to get fired?”

”Pat, you’re the best CA in the world,” Ace says, sincerely. “They’d never fire you.”

”They probably would if they knew you’d moved in with me.”

”That’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’ll tell Brie you’re going to pass.”

Pat makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He’s probably going to get up at five so he can check out the picket line as it’s forming. It’s quiet for a few minutes before he realizes that he’s essentially giving Ace a foot massage. Ace is… Yeah, he’s asleep. Pat leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.

***

”I love three-day weekends,” Ace announces. He’s lying on the floor with one leg propped up on the desk chair. Pat’s still in bed even though it’s closing in on eleven o’clock. He doesn’t have classes on Fridays, so every weekend is a three-day weekend for him. Ace has a nine-am class on Fridays, which definitely sucks.

”You especially like them,” Pat starts, yawns, “when your birthday happens to be on a holiday during a three-day weekend.”

”Very true. What’d you get me?”

”A Forever 21 gift card and a new commuter mug.”

”You’re lying, but I guess I’ll see soon enough.” Ace heaves himself off the floor and yanks Pat’s blankets off the bed. “Get up. I want to go to Cowell and look at the ocean while I eat.”

Pat curls up into a ball. “Porter has ocean views too, Ace, why would we walk all the way across campus for slightly-less shitty dining hall food?”

”It’s my birthday!” Ace calls as he heads out to the bathroom.

”It’s not Monday yet!”

Pat does start getting up, though. He has Capital-P Plans for Ace’s birthday but only for the actual day of. He can spend the weekend indulging Ace, though.

They miss breakfast entirely by the time Ace is done showering and Pat has rolled out of bed and into clothes that are mostly clean. They end up at the Oakes Café for lunch, taking advantage of Ace’s five hundred Flexis.

”So tomorrow, I want to go to the beach,” Ace says. “I know it’s gonna be full of tourists, but I don’t want to go to Natural Bridges anyway so you can pick the beach.” He swirls two fries through the last of the ketchup. “On Sunday, I guess we should study? I don’t really want to but it’s also almost finals week and I know you have a lot of reading to do.”

Ace keeps rambling, trying to cram as many things into this three-day weekend as possible, and Pat just watches him talk.

”Don’t set anything up for Monday, though,” Pat interrupts. “I have Plans.”

”The whole day?”

”The whole day.”

Ace immediately starts guessing at what Pat’s planning. They’re all wrong and Pat just grins and keeps eating his burrito.

Saturday and Sunday go really well, though. They head up the 1 to a beach a little north of Davenport. Ace falls in a tide pool and forgets that his phone is in his wet pocket. It mostly still works but now he can’t use the lock button. Pat falls asleep and gets the closest thing to sunburn he’s ever gotten: his skin gets a little pink and feels hot to the touch. It’s a tan by the time they get back to campus. Ace is at once jealous and irritated. They spend Sunday morning lounging in Pat’s room, watching old episodes of _Bob’s Burgers_ on Pat’s laptop and Sunday afternoon in the library. 

On Monday, Pat wakes up early and goes downstairs to the kitchen that’s usually off-limits. He makes eggs Benedict, hash browns, and cuts up fresh figs. He also uses a French press for the first time. Ace likes his coffee black and strong and Pat doesn’t understand it but he theoretically knows how to use a French press. He takes the tray up to his room where Ace is still sleeping. He leaves breakfast on his desk and heads to Ace’s old room. Ace almost never goes in here anymore; Darren basically has a single now and was more than happy to let Pat leave Ace’s birthday present in there.

Ace has been whining about wanting a ukulele for a couple months. He has two guitars, a keyboard, and a fucking _lyre_ , but he still wants a ukulele for “YouTube covers, Pat, you don’t understand how many great covers I could put on YouTube with a ukulele.” Ace’s plan had been to ask his dad for one as an end-of-year present, but his dad’s going through a little financial trouble at the moment. Ace doesn’t like to ask his mother for anything. Pat found a music shop downtown that had all these really gorgeous instruments and bought a pretty grossly expensive uke for Ace. It’s got mother-of-pearl trim or some shit. Pat doesn’t know anything about music, but it’s pretty, it sounded nice when the guy played it, and it was three hundred dollars. Pat has absolutely no intentions of telling Ace where he got it or how much. Ace would try to pay him back. Ace doesn’t understand how presents work.

When Pat gets back from Darren’s room with the wrapped box, Ace is sitting up, sipping coffee bare-chested. Pat feels personally victimized by Achilles’s beauty on pretty much a daily basis. He should be used to it but he just… can’t seem to get there.

”You made me breakfast?”

”I did.” Pat sets the box on the desk chair. “I illegally used the kitchen, but I cleaned everything up. They’ll never know it was me.”

”You made me breakfast _and_ bought me a present?”

”That? That I stole. I had to take out an old man, but I managed.”

Ace is smiling down into his coffee. “Let’s eat.”

”And then we can get ready for hiking,” Pat says as he moves the tray to the bed. They eat in silence, mostly. It’s comfortable. 

Pat makes Ace carry the box through the trails under the bridges. They make it to the study stump—sometimes Pat likes to study in nature; he picked UCSC for a lot of reasons, okay—and stop there.

”Can I open it now?” Possibly Pat has never seen Ace so excited about anything, not even Disneyland.

”Nah, I think I wanna look at the wrapping paper a little more. Look at that bomb-ass wrapping job I did.”

”Too late,” Ace says, ripping into it. The uke is in a little case that Pat had embroidered with Ace’s name and when Ace opens the case, he just stares at the instrument for a solid two minutes.

”Do you like it?” Pat’s starting to have doubts. Maybe Peleus already bought him a ukulele?

”Pat, this is…”

”Perfect, right?” Pat reaches over to take it out and hand the ukulele to Ace. “Play me something.”

Ace runs his fingers over the strings. The sunlight filters through the trees. It’s quiet, but that nature kind of quiet; birds are chirping and it’s a little breezy. Ace still hasn’t really said anything, but he moves the uke around, starts plucking at the strings, tuning.

He plays two Elvis songs, smiling softly the entire time.

***

The dorms are quiet. Everything's mostly packed up and almost everyone's already moved out. Ace lingers outside Pat's door while his dad loads up the rest of their stuff in a U-Haul.

“So.” 

“So.”

“You’re not my CA anymore.” 

“Nope.” 

“You’re not the boss of me anymore.” 

“Never was.” Pat’s face is heating up; he can feel it. 

“You’re no longer contractually obligated to refrain from kissing me.” Ace grins and tucks two fingers into Pat’s front pocket, tugs. Pat goes. 

“That contract’s up.” They’re standing so close. Ace’s eyes are so _green_. 

“ _Good._ ” 

Even though Pat is expecting the kiss, he’s not _prepared_ for the small noise Ace makes when Pat opens up for him. He’s not _ready_ for the taste of him, warm and sweet like cotton candy at a county fair, and so, so soft. Intellectually, Pat knows that Ace has clean, soft hair, but it’s another thing entirely to run his hand through it as the kiss deepens and their bodies move closer together. 

One of Ace’s hands slides up the back of Pat’s shirt before settling right above his belt. Pat’s hands haven’t settled; he wants to touch as much of Ace as humanly and decently possible. One hand is still in Ace’s hair, the other tangled with one of Ace’s, when Achilles pulls back and whispers, “Hi.”

Pat grins and Ace kisses his teeth.

”Hi.”


End file.
